


Coming Home

by bella_my_clarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, F/M, Fluff ish, I Missed You, Promises, UNCENSORED AND COMPLETELY NECESSARY HUGGING, being cute af, bellamy needs to remember how much he's loved, bellarke canonverse, complete lack of subtlety, s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:51:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7455199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella_my_clarke/pseuds/bella_my_clarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy's coming home from a long patrol, and there's really only one person he wants to see.</p>
<p>Or: these two are a lot more sentimental when they haven't seen each other in several days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

Bellamy was covered in blood and sweat and pain, but it seemed to wash right off him when he saw her.

She was pacing maybe twenty yards in front of him, oblivious to him and everyone else coming in the gates; quite a feat considering the massive ruckus they were making. It looked like she’d been pacing since he’d left, and even though he knew that was silly, he couldn’t help but wonder a little if she was waiting for him. His heart prickled.

Slowly, carefully, he walked closer to her, taking a moment to survey her before he said hello. It wasn’t often he got to look at Clarke without her knowing he was there, and he didn’t take those moments lightly. Her hair was partially pulled back as usual, except it looked like she hadn’t fixed or brushed it in a while, and her expression was taut with concentration. It was a look he was always rather fascinated by—the slight pursing of her lips, the way her eyebrows furrowed over her eyes, which became like blue steel in her effort to solve a problem.

If it were another time, he could watch her all day. But he hadn’t seen her in several days, and the burning need to interact with her again surpassed his quiet curiosity. So he took just a step closer and said, quietly, “Hey Clarke.”

She stopped immediately, eyes widening. Her face turned to his – the sunlight made her eyes look like sparkles on the water, not that he was paying close attention – and a half-thrilled, half-surprised expression molded her face. “Bellamy?”

“It’s me,” he said, managing to smile a little. It was so good to see her again. He never quite realized how much he hated being apart from her until one of them left (though nothing would be as bad as the months after Mount Weather, he hoped).

Still looking him over as if affirming he was real, Clarke took a step forward, and another. He followed suit, wanting to know what she was doing but mostly just wanting to shorten the distance between them (there had been far too much of it lately). There was a moment where they just stood, staring at each other, and then in one forceful, fluid motion, they were in each other’s arms. Bellamy let out a sigh of relief into her hair, trying to consume himself with her distinct yet undefinable scent, the feel of her arms across his shoulder blades as she pulled him closer, the split-second brush of her lips against his skin when she leaned into him. Clarke, he thought, and even the voice in his head sounded giddy.

When they pulled away, Bellamy breathed out, “What happened while I was gone?”

Clarke huffed. “Nothing at all. I was nearly going out of my mind.” Then she gave him a meaningful look. “What about you?”

He worked his jaw, mulling over the events of the past few days. “Plenty, but nothing that won’t get discussed with everyone.”

“Are you okay?” she asked now. He nodded shortly, but she didn’t seem convinced. “Some of those cuts are going to need attention. Plus, you’re filthy. Come on.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him to medical, despite his protests, where she took it upon herself to clean him up. There wasn’t much to bandage up, but she did it almost religiously, dressing a gash in his arm with careful hands and precise concentration. Her fingers kept brushing against his skin, and even though they were supposed to do that, he felt each one like a spark.

“All right, I’m good,” he said when she’d finished, feeling the strange desire to get away from her, as if something would happen if he’d stay.

“No, you’ve still got cuts all over your face, and for once I want to get them fixed up,” Clarke argued lightly with her doctor voice in full force.

“Other people need help more than me, Clarke,” he said, trying to catch her eye.

“And that is why we have several people certified in first aid,” she replied, soaking a cloth and wringing out the extra water.

“Clarke, I really—”

_“Bellamy.”_ Her voice cracked and it stopped him short. Finally, she looked at him, which he almost hated because she looked so upset, hurt even. “Let me help you. Please.”

He looked at her for a long time, knowing it wasn’t his face she really wanted to clean. _You can’t fix me,_ he wanted to say. _You can’t wash off the blood on my hands. I’m just broken, Clarke._ But he couldn’t bear to say that, not to her. Clarke believed she could fix everyone. So instead he said, “All right.”

She sighed, as if guessing his thoughts, and lifted the cloth to his face. It amazed him, her gentleness. Clarke had killed people in cold blood, pulled the lever for hundreds to burn, ripped down empires—and yet with him, her hands were soft and careful. Artist’s hands.

Clarke didn’t often meet his gaze, instead following the path of the cloth as she washed off the blood on his cheeks; he, on the other hand, found nowhere else to look but her. It was strange to be this close to her, but it was a good strange; strange like the buzz of moonshine down his throat, like a lingering hug that grew more peaceful with the seconds instead of more awkward, like the soft ache in his chest that was somehow soothing even as it burned. Strange like how easily Clarke’s name came to mind when he thought of home.

He liked to look at her.

Finally, the bloodstained cloth was set aside and Clarke looked him over quietly. He didn’t dare say anything and ruin…whatever this was. “Feel all right?” she said at last.

“Thank you.”

She smiled a little at him, the sort of smile that touched only half her face because the other half was still in thought. Then she said, “I missed you, you know.”

Bellamy felt that thing, that warm ache spreading through his veins, fingers trailing across his skin. “I missed you, too.”

Then, unexpectedly, she put her hand in his. It was damp and small, but he never felt something so warm. “Promise me you won’t forget there are people waiting for you next time you leave. I don’t want to lose you again.”

That stopped Bellamy dead in his tracks. His lips parted and he might’ve stopped breathing for a few seconds, he wasn’t sure. He didn’t say anything – _what was he supposed to say to that?_ – but he at least managed to squeeze her hand.

“Bellamy.” Her voice was soft. “You just have to say you promise.”

“I—I promise,” he said, and his voice was weak but he hoped she knew he was genuine. Of course he wouldn’t forget the people waiting for him. The people he loved, the people like Clarke, were the only thing that brought him home anymore. They were home.

“Don’t forget,” she insisted, seeming urgent. Her eyes were intense in the lighting and so near his face, the sort of perfect blue only achieved in paintings. He thought about how much he wanted to kiss her. But he also thought about how much he wanted to just be near her, and hold her hand, and know that whether he deserved it or not, she cared about him.

“I won’t.”


End file.
